


All my heart hopes to accomplish

by lbmisscharlie



Category: Bletchley Circle
Genre: Angst, Consent Issues, F/F, Guilt, Healing, Past Abuse, Protectiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-14
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-26 12:53:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/966155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lbmisscharlie/pseuds/lbmisscharlie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Millie wonders, sometimes, what might have happened if she’d had any nerve at all. If she’d been brave enough to withstand the desire to watch the pleased little flick of Lucy's mouth and turned her away.</p><p>She thanks God, sometimes, for her own cowardly soul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All my heart hopes to accomplish

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Part of a follower fic fest over on tumblr, this was in response to [this prompt](http://lbmisscharlie.tumblr.com/post/60654263314/oh-you-this-one-got-a-bit-long-so-im) from [cranberryloops](http://cranberryloops.tumblr.com): _The Bletchley Circle, Lucy/Millie, lipstick and ink._
> 
> Title from Anne Carson's translation of Sappho's fragment 1:  
>  _Come to me now: loose me from hard_  
>  _care and all my heart longs_  
>  _to accomplish, accomplish. You_  
>  _be my ally._

Her whimpers, in the night, are soft and low; familiar, hateful as that is. The bed is softer than they were at Bletchley, and warm; Lucy’s body curls into her, hot and damp. Millie rolls to her side, the space between them becoming the pause of empty brackets, an unsaid aside. Her hand tucks to the nape of Lucy’s neck where her hair is tangled and sticky with sweat, and strokes the tender skin until her breathing evens and the soft, pleading sounds grow silent, tucked away for another night.

They’d roomed together, too, back then: two narrow single beds with iron-hard mattresses, a shared chest of drawers. A single window, but large, with a lace netting curtain during the day, when the blackouts were pushed to the sides. More girls just next door, rows and rows of them; sometimes Millie felt back at school, with Mrs Andrews’ sharpish tongue standing in for the headmistress, with the smell of ink and chalk in the air.

Now, though, Lucy presses against her, like she never did then, even in her nightmares and her terrors; now she smells of rosewater over the sour tang of sleep. Now her fingers flinch and flex against the silk-covered rise of Millie’s hip.

One letter at a time, portioned out like everything during the war – and now, as well, tiny spoonfuls of sugar and minute bags of coffee and no chocolate or rum unless you know people, which Millie does – one letter, one cipher, to each girl, to each brain. Lucy remembered each, still, of course: every scrap that passed her hands, leaving her fingers smudged and her mind a little fuller. She remembered, and she pieced it together, and she knew – she knew, for all that other people thought her simple, or innocent, or – or uncomplicated. 

Millie tells herself she’s forgotten as much as she can of that time, pushed it out of her mind, though she knows Lucy hasn’t – can’t. But for the bursts of laughter, the setting of Lucy’s curls, the shared dab of the tiniest remaining nub of lipstick: but for her chest, heavy and sparking and full, and the smiles of her friends, Millie _would_ forget.

She presses her lips to Lucy’s forehead; Lucy’s lashes flutter against her chin as she stirs. 

“Did I wake you again?” she asks, fretful. Always so concerned.

“No. No, I was awake.”

“Oh.” Lucy clicks her tongue against the backs of her teeth, some half-remembered habit from childhood, and snugs her fists between them, just touching Millie’s breasts. 

“Go back to sleep.”

“Will you?” Lucy challenges people rarely; people, but not Millie. Millie she pushes and frets over and orders about, just a bit.

“I ‘spose I won’t.”

“Then I shan’t either.” Lucy’s fist shifts, just slowly enough to be incidental but for the way the fleshy crease of her palm rubs tight against Millie’s nipple. 

Millie huffs a breath. Lucy ducks her head, lips to Millie’s collarbone, and suckles, hard, no doubt leaving a mottled crimson mark, then looks back up, grin wide.

“You’re incorrigible.” Lucy hums – pleased, no doubt – and mouths against the slack muscle of Millie’s neck until she tips her head back, baring the long expanse, so Lucy can leave a damp trail all down it, chin to collarbone, while Millie gives in and works her hands down to Lucy’s hips.

When Lucy trusts, she does so with a falling, open, terrifying sincerity; the first time she’d gazed at Millie with those guileless eyes, Millie had wanted to tell her to go elsewhere. To find someone else to tell her stymied truths and life-soured cynicism. She wonders, sometimes, what might have happened if she’d had any nerve at all. If she’d been brave enough to withstand the desire to watch the pleased little flick of that mouth and turned her away.

She thanks God, sometimes, for her own cowardly soul.

Lucy opens to her, thighs parting under the worn second-hand satin of the duvet, so Millie can reach for her, find her where she’s hot and damp, from her earlier bath and from the sleep-dulled beginnings of pleasure. Millie pets at her, gentle – always so gentle – until Lucy rocks her hips, hard, against her hands; in the darkness, her face is set, firm, and she dives down and bites, hard, at the rise of Millie’s shoulder.

“Ow – Lucy –”

Lucy’s hands, now, grappling under Millie’s slip, shoving it up under her breasts, clutching at her thighs. “I’m not – you’re always so –”

“I’m always so what?” Millie says; she’s stilled her hands, but Lucy hasn’t, and her fingers work, quick and tight, against Millie’s clit so she gasps, despite herself.

“So – so damned _protective_ ,” Lucy says fiercely. “I’m not _broken_.” Millie inhales, sharp, hissing. Lucy’s fingers, too dry, too hard, work against her flesh, but she can’t quite – she can’t –

“I’m sorry,” she says, finally, and Lucy’s hand falters. “God, I’m – I’m so sorry – I –”

Lucy stops; her eyes, in the low light of the small hours, are dark. As if realizing, very suddenly, what she’d done, she draws back with a startled, half-swallowed cry, but Millie catches her hand, twisting their fingers together. 

“You’re not,” she says, “and I am sorry.” She is and she isn’t and it isn’t nearly enough, paltry words falling, leaden, on the pillow between them. She’s not sorry she ever touched her, if it brought Lucy any peace, and she’s not sorry for Lucy, here, in her bed, but she is penitent for her part in Lucy’s pain. 

“I know,” Lucy says, or sighs. “Will you touch me now, please?”

Millie’s eyes sting, salt-bitter, but she does, rocks forward, hands reaching, grasping; Lucy surges to her and falls against her with crash of too-sharp hips. Hands fumble, urgent and clumsy, and she has little time to feel shocked at how wet Lucy is, soaking and open and eager, before Lucy’s fingers press quick and hard inside her and the knuckle of her thumb works, insistent, against her clit.

Lucy gasps, lips against her neck, and Millie bumps her nose against Lucy’s forehead, wanting her looking – up, honest, into her eyes and all their faults – and wanting to swallow the small, sharp sighs from her mouth. Their teeth bump together, painfully, but Lucy’s eyes are open – so wide – as Millie works her hand more deliberately now, pads of her fingers feeling hot and swollen with all of Lucy’s want under them, and Lucy follows, harder even, so Millie is surprised – shocked – crashing forward as her orgasm slams through her muscles, fierce and agonizing, and leaves her stunned and breathless.

Her forehead rests in the hollow of Lucy’s neck, her spine awkwardly curved, and she’s only half-aware of Lucy rocking her hips, rutting against Millie’s hand until she gasps, just once, and shudders softly, leaving Millie to feel harsh and guilty until Lucy kisses the corner of her mouth fondly and says, “I’m ever so pleased to be with you.” Her voice is soft, sated, and it settles itself deep in Millie’s guilty blood, in her aching soul, and absolves her, just a little.


End file.
